The palace was finally, truly quiet.
It was well past midnight, the kind of deep stillness that only comes after a long coronation feast when every noble has drunk too much wine and every servant has collapsed into bed. Star and Elandor had slipped away hours ago, leaving the great hall to its snores and spilled goblets.
They ended up in the little cottage room Elandor had built inside the royal apartments: wooden beams, crackling stove, the narrow bed that smelled of cedar and home. A single lantern burned low. Outside the small window, the capital's lights glittered like scattered coins, but inside it was only them.
Star sat cross-legged on the quilt, wearing nothing but loose linen trousers, scars on full display: the arrow wound, the newer slice across his ribs from Varyn's last fight, the faint white lines from farm work no royal healer could erase. Elandor leaned against the headboard opposite him, shirt open, hair still tousled from earlier kisses. Between them on the blanket sat a single apple, bright red, stolen from the kitchens.
Star rolled it back and forth between his palms.
"Remember these?" he asked softly.
Elandor's smile was small and fond and a little broken. "How could I forget? You threw one at my head the first time we met."
"I did not throw it," Star protested, laughing under his breath. "I offered. You just ducked like a scared rabbit."
"You were a feral farm child with terrible aim."
"You were a fancy runaway prince who'd never climbed a tree in his life."
They both went quiet, grinning at the memory.
Star bit into the apple first. The crack echoed in the small room. Juice ran down his chin. He didn't bother wiping it.
"My mother used to say apples tasted like forgiveness," he said after he swallowed. "After a bad fight, she'd slice one three ways: one for her, one for Pa, one for me. We'd eat in silence until somebody laughed. Worked every time."
Elandor watched him with that look he sometimes got: like Star was the only real thing in a world made of glass.
"I never got to eat apples with my parents," he said quietly. "The palace orchards were for show. Fruit was counted, weighed, presented on silver platters. I stole my first one when I was nine. Hid it under my pillow and ate it in secret so no one could take it away."
Star's heart hurt at the image: a small boy alone in a massive bed, hoarding a single apple like treasure.
He broke the rest of the fruit in half and handed the bigger piece over.
"Stolen apples taste better," he said. "Everyone knows that."
Elandor took it, fingers brushing Star's. "You gave me half the first time too. Said princes probably weren't allowed to be greedy."
"I was right."
"You were infuriating."
"And yet here you are."
Elandor's eyes softened. He took a slow bite, chewing thoughtfully.
"I used to watch the village children from the palace walls," he said. "You were all so loud. Running, shouting, falling in the mud and laughing about it. I thought you were the freest people in the world."
Star leaned back on his elbows. "We were poor as dirt half the time. One bad harvest and we went to bed hungry. But yeah… we were free. Nobody told us when to laugh or cry or who we were allowed to love."
He paused, voice dropping.
"I kissed a boy behind the hay barn when I was fifteen. Tomas. Blacksmith's son. We were terrified someone would see. Held hands for five whole minutes like it was the bravest thing we'd ever do."
Elandor's expression turned wistful. "I never kissed anyone until you. Not really. There were… arrangements. Noble daughters paraded in front of me. I smiled, I danced, I felt nothing. I used to stand on my balcony at night and wonder if I was broken."
Star crawled forward until he straddled Elandor's lap, knees bracketing his hips, hands settling on warm shoulders.
"You weren't broken," he said firmly. "You were waiting."
Elandor's arms came around him automatically, pulling him close.
"I was," he admitted into Star's neck. "Every star I looked at, I named after you. Even when I didn't know your real name yet."
Star's eyes stung. He pressed his forehead to Elandor's.
"I named one after you too," he whispered. "The brightest one. Used to talk to it when the nights got hard. Told it about the strange boy who promised he'd come back."
Elandor made a small, wounded sound and kissed him: slow, reverent, tasting apple and salt.
When they parted, Star rested their foreheads together.
"We kept our promise," he said.
"We did," Elandor answered, voice thick. "Ten years late and half a kingdom in ruins, but we did."
Star laughed softly, wetly. "Worth the wait."
They stayed like that a long time, trading small stories between kisses: Star's mother teaching him to whistle with a blade of grass; Elandor hiding in the library to read forbidden adventure tales; the first time Star fell out of a tree and broke his arm; the first time Elandor cried alone because his father called him weak.
Every memory was a brick in the home they were building together, stronger than any palace wall.
Eventually the lantern burned low. The apple core sat forgotten on the quilt.
Elandor traced the star-shaped birthmark on Star's shoulder with one gentle finger.
"I used to dream about this mark," he said. "Before I ever saw it again. Dreamed I'd find the boy who carried the stars on his skin."
Star turned his hand over, revealing the thin white scar from the night they bound their blood.
"And I dreamed of a boy who wasn't afraid to bleed with me."
They curled together under the simple quilt, limbs tangled, hearts pressed close.
Outside, the kingdom slept under a peaceful sky.
Inside the tiny cottage room hidden in the heart of the palace, a farmer and his king held each other like children who had finally found their way home.